


Early Days (And Nights)

by palecrepegold



Series: Cait Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Best Friends, F/M, Falling In Love, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age), Vague References To Characters I Made Up, Varric Has Things To Say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:33:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palecrepegold/pseuds/palecrepegold
Summary: When Anders first came to her bedroom door, nothing outside of the two of them mattered. But eventually Hawke will have to bring this new relationship out into daylight. And, Andraste help her,thenshe'll have to listen to what everyone has to say about it.But, no matter what the people in her life put her through, her love will still be there in Darktown, waiting to welcome her back to his arms.





	1. Carrying Fire

“Be sensible, Hawke,” Varric pleaded. “Think about what you’re getting yourself into.”

Hawke frowned. “You think I haven’t?”

“I think you haven’t. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

_He tricked me_ , Hawke thought sourly. When she’d received Varric’s message to come see him at the tavern about ‘something important’ a few hours before, she’d been sitting at her desk, staring at a pile of invoices and investment reports that refused to resolve themselves into something intelligible no matter how long she looked at them. Usually, she was quite good at accounting, and even enjoyed it. Interpreting the documents, writing out the neat little rows of numbers in her ledger that, good or bad, added up to information that she could confidently label as “fact” was soothing to her. A needed change from the physically rigorous adventuring that brought in the bulk of that money over the last three years. But tonight, she’d had...other things on her mind.

So she’d changed out of her house robes and into cuffed linen trousers and and a wrapped silk tunic that suited the weather and set off for Lowtown. Kirkwall felt washed clean by the recent heavy spring rains, and everywhere people were taking their ease outdoors, strolling about or resting on whatever balcony or bench would hold them. Buskers were at nearly every corner in Hightown--singing, juggling, performing puppetry--and their artistry lent a carnival jollity to the usually-stuffy neighborhood. And not only were the nobles enjoying the performances, some of them were even moved to throw a coin or two into whatever receptacle the performers had put out in order to collect donations.

She hated walking down the long stairway that led out of Hightown as much as she ever did, but the time walking it passed much faster than usual.

When she reached Lowtown, even the Hanged Man looked as if someone had at last taken a scrub brush to its floors and aired out the common room. In the plaza outside the tavern, a woman was singing something sweet and sad about lost love while accompanied by a man with a small guitar. Their music had drifted into through the tavern’s open windows, and the usually rowdy crowd of regulars seemed comfortably subdued as they sipped their drinks and listened. The woman’s clear voice carried well, but the sound of the song faded away as she reached Varric’s room.

It was rare, vanishingly rare, that this city seemed so damned _pleasant_. Hawke’s heart had been floating light in her chest when she knocked on his door.

And Varric hadn’t been in any rush to get down to whatever it was he’d called her there for. Instead, he’d tapped a little keg and poured her a tankard of a pleasant tart ale, and then entertained her with the local gossip, culminating in a truly improbable story that ended with her uncle Gamlen being kicked in the groin by one of the tavern’s barmaids. “Lyra’s got strong legs,” Varric told her in a conspiratorial tone. “There might have been some permanent damage.” Generally, she thought it was a bit unfair to laugh at someone else’s misfortune, but the rules were suspended where her dear uncle was concerned.

It had been a good night in good company, with good ale, and Hawke had been relaxed. But then Varric’s tone had shifted.

“A little bird told me they saw a man leaving your house quite early in the morning the other day. Leaving _furtively_.” He’d leaned forward across the table for emphasis, and his look at her had been pointed.

Hawke had decided that perhaps she didn’t feel quite so relaxed after all. Varric was being nosy _and_ coy, a terrible combination.

“Since when are your little birds roosting outside my house, Varric?”

“Not _my_ bird. Just _a_ bird. A chatty bird who likes to drink here from time to time.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want, but if I’d set someone to keep an eye on you, I wouldn’t be telling you about it later. Defeats the whole purpose.”

If he was going to be coy, she would be too. “Fine, have it your way. Someone left my house in the morning. What’s it to you?”

Varric had sat up straighter in his chair, and the look he’d given her was like a mother finding her child’s hands and mouth sticky and the candy jar empty. She belatedly realized that her tankard of ale had been refilled twice, while his first looked barely touched. “Not just someone, a man. A tall man. A tall, _blond_ man.” He paused expectantly, but Hawke was silent. Suddenly, it felt like a good time to take a long look at whatever was over Varric’s left shoulder. New tapestry? She’d have to ask him.

“Freckles, what are you _doing_?”

She hated when he called her that, but he insisted nicknames weren’t something you got to choose. At least he hadn’t ever been brave enough to call her ‘Caity.’ “Don’t tell me the important business you had me come down here for was a lecture about my private life.”

“Just tell me it was some other tall, blond man. Tell me you got an early delivery from the bakery. Tell me the Blooming Rose does house calls. Anything.”

“I think I’m going to tell you that I’m leaving.” She’d gone to stand up, but then she saw that Varric’s eyes held real concern. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to put this conversation off like she had the paperwork.

And that had brought them to the present moment. _Curse you, little man._

“Here’s your conversation, then. Yes, it was Anders. And yes, it will happen again.”

She did her best to sound as though she’d brook no argument. Varric had no right to tell her who she could take as a lover. But she knew it was a token gesture; he’d met her that night already knowing what he was going to say, and he was set firmly on his path.

It was unfair, she thought, that she hadn’t had more time to enjoy this new experience of love before the rest of the world started to poke it with their grubby fingers. It had been heartbreakingly sweet, these first few precious nights together.

With other lovers, there had always been a point where she had to pull back. If they took a dislike to her, or were too chatty with the wrong person, the Templars would be on her and her entire family’s safety would be at risk. When Anders told her that no mage he knew had ever dared fall in love, it had shaken her to realize that the same was true for her. But with him, there were no big secrets. He knew she was a mage, he knew she was a mercenary adventurer, he knew she both resented and loved her mother and got sick to her stomach when she ate too much cheese. All she needed to truly fall in love with him was the knowledge that he would finally let himself be there to catch her. And now, he was.

At least Varric hadn’t found out yet that she’d been to the locksmith to have a new key made, that it was already sitting in her desk drawer looped on a chain along with a wooden feather pendant she’d carved. She’d found the little cat she’d made from cherrywood resting in a pocket in Anders' coat, and when she’d asked him about it he had sheepishly admitted it had been there for the entire two years since she’d given it to him. The cat’s curved back had been worn to a shine from the rub of his thumb. For luck, he’d said. Just what kind of luck, she hadn’t asked, but she had suspicions. Maybe the feather, and what went with it, would let him know he didn't have to rely on luck anymore.

Varric sighed for what seemed like a full minute, pulling back Hawke’s attention from her musing. “Every man and woman in this city, and you had to go for the possessed apostate with a death wish,” he grumbled.

Hawke was defiant. She was no sticky child, damn his hide and his superior attitude. “I did.”

“No, you _didn’t_ , and that’s the damned problem. You’re no fool, Hawke. Not usually. Not like this.”

“Andraste’s Ashes, Varric, I know!” Her frustration overtook her. “I know who I am. I’m responsible, the head of the family, I take care of everyone’s problems. I get to be there to pull everyone else back by their collar when they go to step off a cliff. When is it my turn to act foolish?”

Varric’s stoic expression faltered, and she saw pity on his face. And a little guilt. But he steeled himself and pressed on.

“Foolish is fine, for a while. A _little_ while.” He held up his hand, the tips of his thumb and forefinger a quarter-inch apart. “Then you sober up and get on with your life.”

“Didn’t you say I should be more impulsive?” Varric started to interject, but she waved him off.

“In fact, I think your exact words were--” she pitched her voice an octave lower “‘--Listen up, Freckles, you need to stop overthinking things and let life happen sometimes, or that stick up your ass is going to rise so far up it stabs you through a lung.’” She couldn’t out-talk Varric, but given enough time and a good memory he had a real habit of out-talking himself.

“This is not what I meant, and you know it. And I said that _two years ago_. You’ve loosened up since then.” He paused. “A little.”

“You have to take care of yourself. Me, Isabela, Merrill, Fenris, Aveline--you know we’ll all do our best to take care of you too. But if this thing goes south, that’s a fire no one can pull you out of but you.”

Hawke realized he wasn’t simply being melodramatic, though of course that was there as well. What she had now with Anders would change her. Already, she felt that there were places he might go, things he might do, that she would do as well against her own best interest. She wouldn’t follow him; that passivity was not in her nature. But she would walk beside him, and she would be willing to let him point the way.

An uncomfortable revelation, and one she wasn’t ready to deal with yet.

Wait--Isabela, Merrill, Fenris, Aveline, and Varric? What had brought him to list their entire little band? “Did you come to this conclusion yourself, or have you all had a conference and decided someone had to handle me?”

Varric looked surprised. “No, Hawke. Of course not. I haven’t talked to anyone.” The unspoken _yet_ hung in the air between them. “I just want you to tell me if this is serious. How big of a mistake are you planning to make?”

She sighed. No matter how she thought it might change her, what existed between herself and Anders was still so new, bright but untested. It could lead them both in many directions.

Her answer was honest. “It’s early days yet. I don’t know what will happen.” Her voice grew pointed. “But neither do you.”

Varric leaned back and crossed his arms.

“I can make a pretty strong educated guess. It’s not hard to recognize ‘doomed romance’ when you’ve seen the story play out as many times as I have.”

The statement should have made her angry, but it didn’t. It hurt in a different way.

Her voice was uncharacteristically soft when she spoke next. “Varric, when do I get to stop being a character in a book you’re writing?”

That got through to him. “Shit, Hawke. Shit. I’m sorry.” He was quiet for a moment. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. You’ve had enough of that. I want your story to end with, ‘and she lived happily ever after.’”

_Stupid little man._ Stupid, sincere little man who loved her. Who tried to be her drinking partner, her biographer, and her big brother all at once. She was close to tears for the first time since she received the letter telling her Carver had survived his Joining.

With effort, she kept her eyes dry. “Maybe this isn’t the path to that ending. But I don’t want to wait for ever-after. I want my happiness now.” And that was that. Her whole heart was out on the table. How on the Maker’s earth had she let that happen?

“And Blondie makes you happy?” She nodded and looked downward. “He makes me happy,” she informed the table, a statement which Varric was free to overhear.

Varric let all the air out of his chest that she hadn’t realized he was holding in. “All right, all right. I won’t get get in the way of that.” His tone became a bit more cheerful. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him, but I won’t get in your way.”

Hawke had to grin at that, and some of the weight of their conversation lifted from her shoulders. “What if I block your shot?”

He gasped in mock outrage. “You’d do Bianca dirty like that? And here I thought you two were friends.”

Varric relaxed back into his chair, relieved that the stressful part of this evening seemed to be over. “Hawke, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we just had an honest and mostly bullshit-free conversation about your feelings. That can’t be right though, can it?”

“You’re drunk, Dwarf,” she replied, with a wry look towards his barely-touched tankard. “A backhand cures most people of that.”

“Aaaand you're back! Don’t be alarmed, Freckles, but a person with a functioning heart has been impersonating you. If you’re not careful, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

Hawke snorted. “Trust me, she’ll never get away with it.”

She stood up from the table at last. “Well, I’d better tell Anders about your threats before you find a reason to put a bolt in him. Forewarned is forearmed.” Varric smiled at her, though a hint of worry remained on his face. “Go get ‘em, kid. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“I know it.”

She paused a moment. “So, was everything in that story about Gamlem bullshit, or just most of it?”

“Hawke, get out before you finish ruining the moment.”

Fair enough. It was time to be gone. She gave Varric a mocking little salute and (at last) slipped out through his door. The lamps were lit in the common room now, but there was still a subdued geniality presiding over the regulars.

Outside, she found that twilight had set in before moonrise, and even Lowtown looked as if it might contain magic in that gentle half-light.

Outside the tavern the two musicians she’d seen before were still performing, now with a small crowd gathered sitting at their feet. They were both singing now, harmonizing with the ease of long familiarity. Although she was ready to be on her way, there was something about this duo that attracted her as well. No, not the duo; just one of them.

The man with the guitar was some years past middle age. His face was deeply wrinkled and shaped by hard living, though the long blond curls that framed his face were only slightly gone to gray. When she’d passed him before, she’d seen him only out of the corner of her eye, but facing him now she sensed a dynamic charisma that called to her. She looked closer.

His nose was prominent, and she could see that his jawline, now somewhat sagging, would have once been well-defined. He was tall, but now somewhat stooping; had been thin, she was sure, but now carried a thick softness around his middle.

Despite his age, there was something familiar there. Hawke found herself peeling the years off of him in her mind and pictured him as he once was. Fiercely proud, even arrogant, but with a gentle mouth that laughed easily to temper it.

He wouldn’t have been identical to Anders then. More similar, perhaps, to the outwardly insouciant and irreverent man he claimed he’d been not so many years before. But it would have been close, she suspected. What would it be like to look at Anders’ face once time had run rampant on it? Would she still see the man she knew now? Would the fire in him that drew her dwindle down to embers?

No, she decided. He would grow old, barring tragedy. His body, which excited her so much now, would change. But his passion would not falter. She remembered something her father had read to her once out of one of his many books--that success in life was “to burn always with this hard gem-like flame.” It was a quote he'd returned to often enough that she knew it was significant to him. But it wasn't until he was gone that she realized why. Who else could be as attracted to the romantic idea of a bright-burning life as someone who had spent long years as a prisoner? When she was a child, it was impossible to imagine that someone as dynamic as her father could have ever been trapped within a Circle's walls. But he'd spent two decades guarded closely by templars, looking through barred windows and imagining the outside world it as it was described to him in his books. He had needed a dream, a mantra, to keep his spirit alive.  

It was that same gem-like flame, which spoke of embracing the freedom to live and taking with it all its consequences, that had drawn her subconscious mind to the man singing before her now. She had yearned for Anders before, but was suddenly the most important thing in the world that she be next to that fire, that she feed it with her mind and body both and feel it light itself inside her as well. And let what change come as it may.

The man caught Hawke’s gaze, and his eyes crinkled. Her face grew hot. There was something mischievous about that look. Flirtatious, despite the thirty-plus years that separated their ages. She felt as if somehow he knew what she had been thinking about, and she was sure he knew exactly what it was she was off to go do. Well, he’d probably done it enough himself in his time; that flame of life, so long as it was tended, would not be denied.

He nodded his head briefly towards the rather battered hat at his feet. She grinned widely, surprising herself, and flicked in a half-sovereign. The music was better than average, but that wasn’t what the coin was for.

The die was cast, her choice was made. Now, to see where it would take her. Once again, Hawke’s heart was light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life. In a sense it might even be said that our failure is to form habits: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world, and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes two persons, things, situations, seem alike. While all melts under our feet, we may well grasp at any exquisite passion, or any contribution to knowledge that seems by a lifted horizon to set the spirit free for a moment, or any stirring of the sense, strange dyes, strange colours, and curious odours, or work of the artist’s hands, or the face of one’s friend. Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the very brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening.”  
> ― Walter Pater, Introduction to _The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry ___  
> 


	2. Bedhead

Hawke didn’t quite run to Darktown, but she certainly walked quickly. Past the little plaza that housed the Hanged Man, Lowtown’s streets became serpentine, thinner and more twisting with every step. Those streets gave way to even narrower alleyways, so confusingly laid out that it felt as if they were tangled together like a knot of snarled hair. When she’d arrived in Kirkwall, another Fereldan greenhorn, she’d been sure she would never learn her way around these streets. But needs must, and so she’d walked through the neighborhood for hours at a time, progressively traveling farther away from her uncle’s house. That had led to at least a dozen hours wandering lost, two thwarted muggings, and one successful one, but eventually it had paid off. Even two years later, she still carried a map of the area in her head, and could travel through it almost as easily as a native.

And so it wasn’t too many long minutes later that she found what she was looking for: an unassuming grate laid into the pavement that led into a little-used tunnel to the Undercity. Her muscles strained as she pulled the heavy iron back, and their bars left dark marks across the palms of her hands. She wiped the dirt off onto her trousers, pausing for a moment. Usually, she would never travel this way without gloves, or  _ boots _ \--the soft leather town shoes she wore now weren’t going to fare well in a sewer environment. When she’d left home earlier in the day to meet Varric, she hadn’t planned on going to the clinic next. For the last several nights, Anders had come to her, arriving late enough that Hawke could be sure her mother would be in her room for the night. Even though Hawke’s relationship with Anders would hardly be as disruptive to her family as Leandra’s relationship with Malcolm had been, she was worried her mother would still have disapproving words for her. And any victory she might gain by using her trump card _ , At least I’m not twenty years old and knocked up, _ would be a sour one.

So she’d waited each night to smuggle him up to her bedroom, something she could still go home and do again later tonight. It’d only be a few hours. She was unarmored, her only weapon was a penknife in her belt, muggings in Darktown were as common as sneezing. It wasn’t too late to be cautious.

Hawke called up an arcane shield and dropped into the sewer, pulling the grate closed behind her. 

Immediately, it was at least 10 degrees hotter than it had been on the surface. The air, as always, smelled faintly rotten, and the layer of sediment (and who knew what else) that covered the bottom of the tunnel squelched under her feet.  _ A charming environment, as always _ . Hawke kept her head down and her little knife in her hand. It was a few hundred dark and murky paces before her side tunnel connected with a wider thoroughfare, and a few hundred drier feet after that before she was out into the semi-open and before the clinic.  

The lantern was lit, but an older elven man Hawke recognized as one of the clinic’s assistants was shuttering it as he left the clinic for the night. Anders had a few such aides now, primarily people donating their time in thanks for his work in saving either themselves or someone they loved. None were mages, but it didn’t take a mage to make poultices or stitch wounds, and some took to the work well enough that they would make competent conventional healers in time. Anders was grateful for their help and immensely proud of their progress. Hawke was grateful as well, because it was significantly easier to convince Anders to accompany her on jobs outside Kirkwall when he knew his patients would be looked after in his absence.

The man nodded to Hawke as she approached. “Close the door behind you, serrah.” She nodded in return, grateful both that the man had recognized her and that he wasn’t the chatty sort.

Once inside, she expected the clinic to be empty of everyone save Anders. But another aide was in the back of the clinic, sitting on a stool next to the fire pit that burned there all year except on the very hottest days of summer. She had set up around her a large washing vat that looked to be full of hot water and lye as well as two baskets. One basket was full of dirty linens. The woman appraised each piece of cloth as she pulled it from the basket. Anything that looked salvageable went into the vat whole, pushed under the water with a large paddle. Anything bloodied or dirtied beyond saving went into the other basket, though the woman was careful to cut off even the smallest clean bits and throw them in the vat as well, to use for bandages later. Before she’d spent time in the clinic, Hawke had never considered just how much mundane work went into keeping it running. Anders’ healing magic was the crux that brought in the patients, but his quotidien  ice spell that kept the clinic outfitted with a ready supply of clean water was nearly as important. And healing magic could only do so much; there would always be a need for someone to spoon-feed sick patients, or change their dressings, or simply sit with them through a painful and lonely night when they weren’t sure to see the morning.  In truth, it was a place that belonged to many more people than him alone.

Hawke walked to the back of the clinic, earning herself a brief glance of acknowledgement, though the assistant never slowed her work. “Her’s sleeping,” she said before Hawke could speak. “Gut wound came in, a few hours back. Bleeding like a stuck pig, he was. Lucky thing the healer was in, else he’d be on his way to his funeral pyre about now.” The last part of her statement was delivered evenly enough, but Hawke thought she detected a drop of recrimination in it. 

“Lucky indeed,” she replied drily. “How long has he been sleeping?”

“Close onto four hours, now.” The assistant looked up at Hawke at last. “He was tired to the bone.” The implication that he ought to be left alone to keep sleeping was quite clear.

Hawke considered her options. She didn’t need to explain her presence there; her close friendship with Anders over the last three years took care of that. But she didn’t fancy the idea of just waltzing back to his little bedroom while this woman sat working fifteen feet away. It’d certainly start gossip, for one, and it would mean they didn’t have privacy, for another. A bit of deception was called for.

“Will you be here much longer?” Hawke asked. The woman looked at her derisively. It was obvious that the work was far from done. “What I mean is,” Hawke hastened to add, “would you like to leave? I’m here to--”  _ climb into that man’s bed the moment I see the back of you _ “--deliver a message. It’s important, so I need to wait until he wakes up. I’ll just be sitting here until then, I might as well keep myself busy.” She smiled in a manner she hoped would make her seem trustworthy and happy to lend a helping hand.

The woman’s face told Hawke that the smile had failed to take her in. But the work was clearly tedious, and she had other places she’d rather be. “Tell him I only left because you asked. If the work’s left undone, I’ll not be blamed for it.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll tell him, and the work will be done.” 

The woman shrugged and stood. “You’re welcome to it, then.” She gathered up her things, and Hawke made a show of sitting down in the stool and starting to work while the woman walked out of the clinic and shut the door behind her. Once the clinic was empty, Hawke waited all of thirty seconds, then stood up and headed to the opening in the clinic’s back wall.

Beyond that opening, to Hawke’s right, hung a heavy canvas cloth in lieu of a door. She slipped behind it and into Anders’ bedroom.

The room was a small one, about the size of the one she and Carver had shared at Gamlen’s. A long arrow-slit window usually provided light and air, but it was shuttered now--the sun must have been shining strong through it when Anders went to bed. Once the cloth resettled behind Hawke, the room was nearly pitch black. She held herself still for a moment in the warm darkness, letting her other senses spread out and take in the space. She could hear Anders’ soft, sleeping breath. With both the window and the doorway covered, all the scents that combined to make him up dominated here. The harsh astringent soap he used both to clean patient’s wounds and wash himself, the dregs of the so-strong-it’s-bitter black tea that he drank when he was writing. The faint lingering odor of dried lavender that still hung around his little silk pillow after twenty-plus years. And below it all, the base note of his particular perfume, was the smell of his living, breathing, sweating body.

Breathing him in like this, both of them hidden in the dark, felt somehow primal. A kind of intimacy wrapping around them both that she fancied existed between two people back before there were words to describe it. Hawke let herself float for a moment in the womb-like dark. She fancied she could hear his heart beating.

She took one more deep breath through her nose, let it out, and then twisted her hand. A wisp of magical fire jumped from her fingers to light the room’s candles and illuminate the room.

To say it was sparsely furnished would be a dry understatement. There was a chair, a table that frequently did double-duty as a desk, a packing crate repurposed to hold nearly all of Anders’ possessions, and the long, narrow bed that took up one wall of the room. When she’d met him, it had been a cot like the ones his patients used, but with persistence she’d been able to get him to accept a small upgrade. The fat white candles in the metal sconces on the wall and in the holder on the desk--wax, not tallow, and bright-burning--were brought by her. So was the bright rag rug that covered most of the floor, and the writing slope on the desk, well supplied with ink and foolscap. He’d refused a dozen other, similar gifts, but every so often she’d managed to slip something past his defenses.

Anders was sprawled out on his back on the little bed now, still dead to the world. One arm was thrown above his head, the other hanging over the side, leaving one hand dangling just above the ground. He still had on his boots, though one was mostly unlaced.  _ He must have been exhausted _ . She crouched down at the foot of the bed, finished unlacing it, and slipped it off, then set to work on the other one. It wasn’t easy to get them off without waking him--Hawke remembered hearing once that a person’s feet swelled while they slept--but she managed it. Of all the ways there were to let Anders know she was there, tugging on his feet seemed like a poor one.

She kicked off her own shoes and sat down on the ground at the head of his bed. Close up, she could see that the hair next to his scalp was wet with perspiration, and his thin shirt stuck damply to his chest. She stroked his forehead, pushing a stray strand of hair back, then picked up his trailing hand and held it in both of hers. She daydreamed about slipping sparkling rings on those fingers, wrapping his wrists up in bangles that would chime when they hit each other with every flick of his wrist. Almost strange to hold one of those expressive and ever-moving hands still. 

She wondered if she could get him to sit for her so she could carve a little sculpture of them. It would require a good piece of wood, like the heartwood of a box-elder, the red striations climbing up the pale wood like tongues of flame…. It would be more difficult than the work she usually did, but now that she could see its image in her mind, she knew it would gnaw at her until she made it real. She stroked his hand lightly, then placed it on his chest.

It wasn’t quite like the storybooks said, was it. Her sleeping prince was a sweaty man on a narrow bed in a stuffy little room. And his knight in shining armor was a barefoot hedge mage who’d left her armor at home, here to wake him from an exhausted nap instead of a magical slumber. Luckily, the charm that woke the sleeper was the same across every story.

Hawke pulled lightly from the Fade, and a layer of frost grew on her hand. She let those cold fingers comb his hair back from his scalp, then ran one over her lips, transferring the residue of the spell to them. Despite the heat of the room, when she exhaled, she could see her breath manifest in white tendrils. Hawke dropped her cool-mouthed kisses on Anders’ forehead, then his nose, and then his mouth. At that third kiss, his lips came to life under hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from Bedhead's song "liferaft":
> 
> the bed at night is a life raft in the ocean of the dark. i hang my hands over the sides, pray to god knows what.  
> drifting somewhere in the black air, feeling only the blanket and the weight of the mattress. the mistress of the sheets.  
> too many successive nights of being miserable  
> give one the sense to sense the invisible. i know you're in this room but the air is too thick.  
> the bed at night is a life boat, a throne off which you can't be thrown. i hang my hands and feet over the sides and go into the space of what can never be known.


End file.
